


Tantalus

by Cali_se



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Background Relationships, Episode Related, Friendship/Love, Implied Relationships, Kissing, M/M, Past Relationship(s), The Sign of Three Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:12:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cali_se/pseuds/Cali_se
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If things were simple, this would be perfect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tantalus

**Author's Note:**

> I did my best to tag this story appropriately. It has some Sherlock/Lestrade, heavily implied John/Sherlock, with Mary and John as a background relationship. It has a very tiny touch of the AU about it, re: the distance between the wedding venue and Baker street.

Sherlock hadn't believed Mycroft when he'd said there might not be room for him in John Watson’s new world; and yet, as he'd watched the newly married couple waltzing around the room, it had felt as though each step of that first waltz had taken John further away. Now it looked like the final nail in a coffin that, if he was honest with himself, had been built bit by bit since he'd 'fallen' from the roof of Bart's. With the bride and groom the centre of attention, at least no-one had been watching him as he played the theme he'd penned especially for the occasion, and for that he was thankful. 

Now seemed like as good a time as any to go: John and Mary still on the dance floor, everyone (well, almost everyone) paired off, and the whole room more than a little bit merry and just a wee bit maudlin. That was how weddings were supposed to go. It had been a great success -- except for the attempted murder of a guest, that is. Even that, now, was all nicely sealed away in the 'solved' file. Another life saved.

As he pushed open the door and walked out into the night, he realised he was desperate for a cigarette. Nothing out of the ordinary there. At university he'd taken to smoking cigars at one point -- those tiny thin ones that made your fingers smell. After that, he'd acquired a pipe from somewhere. That particular habit hadn’t lasted long but had been replaced with others, others which had sent him spiralling...

Perhaps he should have stuck to the cigars.

He turned his coat collar up against the cool air and started to walk away from the building. 

"Oi! Where d'you think you're going?" A voice, determined in its endeavours, stopped him in his tracks and he turned sharply. "Sneaking off are we?" 

"And you've had enough yourself, it would seem."

"Not at all. Love a wedding, me. Just saw you leaving and--"

"Followed me."

Lestrade grinned. "So... are you coming back in or are you gonna disappear on us? Again."

"I'm not disappearing..."

"Greg."

"I know."

"Yeah. I know you know. Did you tell John you were heading off?"

"I thought it best just to--"

"Disappear!"

Sherlock sighed. "Go back to the wedding reception, _Greg_. Your beer will be getting warm."

"Ahhh, I've had enough. Don’t want to end up in the cells now, do I?“ Lestrade smiled. 

"That was a miscalculation."

"Either that or someone topped up your drinks. My money's on the groom. It was very funny, Sherlock, that's all I know. Look, do you want to get a coffee or--"

Sherlock had every intention of saying: _Look Greg, if that really is your name, I'm miserable and I want to be alone._ But, like so many things he'd wanted to say lately, the words remained lodged in his throat and refused to be uttered. 

So he nodded, and went to find a taxi to take them back to Baker Street. 

For one thing, Lestrade always had cigarettes.

~*~

"Good speech, by the way. Well, most of it. You started off a bit... well, typically you, shall we say. But that stuff you said about John... Wasn't a dry eye."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied as he came out of the kitchen with two cups of coffee. He handed Lestrade one of them and took his place on the sofa. 

"And trust you to have to solve a murder while you were at it,” Lestrade continued, sitting beside him; ”and prevent another one. You just can't help yourself, can you, eh?"

Sherlock smirked as he took a sip of coffee, letting the bittersweet brew invade his senses, perking them up.

“You turning up again really was a stroke of luck for us. How the hell did we all cope when you were dead? I tell you, it’s a source of constant amazement.”

“Well, as I said, you did let things slide.”

"Must be hard for you though, Sherlock," Lestrade continued. "Now."

The 'now' seemed to have a sharpened edge, like a well-aimed dart. 

Sherlock paused to look at Lestrade over the rim of his cup. "Why?" 

"Well, now that things have changed. It’s not the scene you left behind, is it? I mean, take tonight -- the wedding night! You about to sneak off home like Billy-no-mates."

"And you followed me, so what does that make you?"

"Touché!"

"Incidentally,” Sherlock said, after a few moments silence, "why _did_ you come here?"

"I often come here."

"Tonight, I mean. Specifically. Why did you come back with me instead of going back to John and Mary's party? It's true you weren't exactly the life and soul--"

"Cheers."

"--but you seemed to be enjoying it. In your own little way. So, why leave?"

"You tell me," Greg said. "You're the detective." He smiled at his own joke.

"I'm assuming it's a misguided attempt to comfort me."

"Misguided?"

"In that, I don't need comforting. I'm absolutely fine."

"What's wrong with a bit of comfort? We all need it sometimes."

"I don't. I'm fine."

"'Course you are."

"I'm very happy for John."

"Yeah, yeah... I know you are, Sherlock. But... look, I know the score. And I just want you to know that there's someone, you know, if ever you need to... talk." He let out a sigh. "I'm crap at this stuff."

"That's alright, because I won't need anyone to talk to. I'm fine."

"Oh, I know you are; but I still want you to know that there's someone who cares about you, besides John."

Sherlock regarded the DI for a moment. "Oh. Molly? Well, I'm aware she's had certain feelings for me in the past... but she's found someone else now, as I'm sure you--"

"I'm not talking about Molly," Lestrade interrupted.

"Mrs. Hudson. Of course, she's--" 

"You know, Sherlock," Lestrade said, interrupting him again, "for someone who's supposed to be a genius you really can be just a little bit stupid."

Sherlock started to respond to this grotesque assertion, but his words were once again shamelessly hushed, this time by a pair of lips, firmly pressed against his own. "I mean me, you fucking idiot," Lestrade said, before moving in to kiss him again. Sherlock heard himself let out a peculiar sound, somewhere between a moan and a sigh, as Lestrade continued to kiss him, mouth pressing, caressing, teasing, cajoling; opening his mouth with tiny insistent flicks of his tongue. When Lestrade pulled away to shrug off his jacket, the moment was caught and held between them as their eyes met, pupils dilating, their breath quickening. Lestrade licked his lips, his gaze never leaving Sherlock's face, and this time it was Sherlock who moved forward first. As he captured Greg's lips with his own, Sherlock could feel both of their hearts pounding in sync through the fabric of their shirts. Short hair, so like John's, close cropped, surprisingly soft, smelling of shampoo (apple, mint, probably with a hint of sodium lauryl sulfate), slipped beneath his fingers as their kiss deepened. It felt good to feel this connection with another man again, the thrill of it surging upwards and outwards in time with the pulse of his blood; the dizzying abandonment, like a drug; wanting more and more of it the more you have, never quite getting enough... 

And eventually, after all that, would come the crash; the lack of control, the overwhelming need, the vulnerability.

And ultimately, the pain. It was inevitable. _Someone always has to be the first to leave the party..._

With delicious, urgent arousal still spiking in his body, as sensual memory upon sensual memory ( _so like John's..._ ) caught his imagination and would not let him go, Sherlock's conscious and unconscious mind each called a halt to proceedings. In spite of himself, he pulled away, eliciting a small sound of disappointment from his would-be lover, who drew back in turn, his eyes dark with need, his lips damp and flushed, fresh from their kiss. He cocked his head questioningly as Sherlock sat back and brushed an imaginary bit of fluff off his trousers, biding his time. “I can't do this," he said at last. "I just don't make this kind of connection. It's not what I do. It's not you, it's me." He felt himself cringe. 

Lestrade let out a small laugh. "It's not you, it's me? Have you been rehearsing for this? Researching what people say in moments of carnal embarrassment? I can just imagine it… That kiss felt fucking amazing, Sherlock, unless I'm imagining things. So... Is it a power thing? You keep that part of yourself all wrapped up, just out of reach, while we sad fuckers wait and wonder? It's like that... oh god, who is it? The one who could never reach the... thing--"

"Tantalus," Sherlock supplied helpfully.

"That's it. Only we're Tantalus and you're the... thing he can't get at." Lestrade rubbed his eyes wearily. "Oh god, now I’m talking rubbish..." he sighed, looked at Sherlock. “You’d be a terrible boyfriend, anyway."

"So I've been told."

"Drive me barmy."

They spared each other a small smile. 

"I think it's time I got going," Lestrade announced, putting on his jacket and taking out his cigarettes."I'll take it on the chin. Ballsed up big time, behaved like a total twat; thought..." He let out another sigh. “I dunno. Must be all that beer... and the champagne.” He got up and drew out two cigarettes, handing one to Sherlock and keeping another between his fingers ready to light. "I'll see myself out. Thanks for the coffee." 

"I'm... sorry." 

"Ahhh. Not as sorry as I am. See you around, Sherlock."

Sherlock's mouth felt dry; he took a sip of his coffee but it was lukewarm now and as unpalatable to him as the truth he was facing. He placed the cup back down with a small grimace as footsteps echoed on the stairs and the front door closed with a resigned slam, and then twirled the cigarette around in his fingers and sniffed it, breathing it in. As he placed it between his lips, he felt the remnants of Lestrade's kiss still lingering there. It _had_ felt good to kiss someone again. Lestrade had begun to touch on something long since buried… but with him it would always be the next best thing and, strangely, Sherlock felt he owed him more than that. It was some sort of affection, after all, wasn't it? An affection which meant not wanting Greg to be second best. He could admit to having learned a thing or two in recent months. To himself, at least.

His mobile rang, but he didn't get the chance to say anything; Lestrade was clearly flustered and brooding. 

"Listen, Sherlock... About what just happened up there? Don't tell anyone, will you? Me making a twat of myself, I mean."

"No-one would be remotely interested, would they?"

“Met my so-called colleagues, have you? They'd have a field day with this one. Anyway, water under the bridge, yeah? As I said... Probably still a bit pissed. And weddings, you know. They do things to me."

"Yes, I know," Sherlock replied, realising as he said it that he wasn't in fact playing lip service to the DI; at this moment in time, he really _did_ know.

He was about to hang up when Lestrade added: "Don't you ever need someone, Sherlock? I mean, isn't there anyone you feel that way about?"

"As a matter of fact there is," Sherlock replied, after a few moments consideration. "But I don't get involved… with married people."

He hung up then, before he could elaborate, before Lestrade could ask anything more of him, or guess who it was he meant. Then he settled back into the sofa cushions, alone in the silence, and waited for the bride and groom to wonder where he was.


End file.
